


Banged

by lalejandra



Category: Bandom, Empires, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Kink Bingo 2012, M/M, Monogamy, Sexual Fantasy, Transformative Works Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:12:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Patrick wants to be left alone but he doesn't actually want Sean to leave him alone.For the "gangbang" square on my kink_bingo card.





	Banged

Pete is carefully in Chicago when the tour hits California ("Cant believe Im gonna miss @patrickstump and @weareempires in LA, go see them motherfuckers," says Pete's Twitter), just like he was carefully in California when the tour was in Chicago. Patrick gets it, he really does, but it still stings a little. Gabe is way more famous than Pete these days, and even he showed up when they were in New York -- although Patrick thinks it was more so he could disappear afterward with Tom and Danielle than to support Patrick.

Still.

They're staying two nights in Pete's house, because Patrick has a key and Pete has room enough for everyone (and Pete had called Tom), but Patrick wishes he'd put his foot down. He has plenty of friends in LA, could have stayed anywhere but this room, with all its echoes and memories. It's the same guest room he's always in, the same too-soft bed he can never get comfortable in, the same sunny yellow curtains on the windows that don't get any sun. The wall across from the bed, near the floor, says BX BX BX BX BX in blue crayon. Pete probably could have hired someone to scrub it off, but he always let Bronx tag his name everywhere in the house that he wanted to.

No show tonight, so Patrick can just lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling and sulk. What he tells Twitter isn't bullshit -- he and Pete are still best friends. A bond like the one they have never goes away. Fall Out Boy isn't _over_ , just on pause, and he doesn't miss it anyway, especially the last year of misery. Nothing will ever be the same, and Patrick is mostly comfortable -- as comfortable as a human can be, anyway -- with the fact that everything changes all the time, nothing stays the same. But he still feels fucking terrible.

There's a knock, and then the door opens and Sean steps in. "Hey," he says cautiously. "Did you want to eat?"

"I'm sick of peanut butter," Patrick says, and he knows he sounds just as tired and sad as he feels.

"Nah, some delivery showed up. Magic." Sean smiles a little. There's a little twist to it, and Patrick wonders for a split second if Sean is jealous -- but the twist disappears, and Sean has his normal goofball smile on his face again. "Pete says hi, and had one of the delivery guys draw a Stump-O-Matic on one of the pizza boxes."

"Pizza." Patrick grunts.

"Also Thai. Mexican. Some kind of I don't even know what from a French place. And something else I don't remember, just huge sandwiches." Sean leans against the wall and crosses his legs. He's so _long_. Patrick just wants to scrape his teeth all over Sean's skin and leave welts. Bite marks. He wants to pinch Sean until he doesn't feel sad anymore and then suck Sean's dick until he's finished sulking. But he also wants to be left alone, just wants Sean to go away and leave him to be a miserable fucking bastard tonight.

He looks away, back to the ceiling.

"Can I bring you some food?" Sean asks.

"No."

"Water? Tea?"

"Nnnn." Patrick presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Wanna play?" Sean's voice is even, even enough that Patrick wonders if he's worried or pissed. Patrick just grunts. "Do you need me to go away?"

Patrick sighs. "No. I don't. I just . . . maybe you should. I'm. I can't right now, okay?"

"Do you actually want me to leave or . . ." The bed dips when Sean sits down, and Patrick involuntarily rolls toward him. Sean brushes Patrick's hair off his face, and when Patrick closes his eyes, Sean runs a thumb over first one eyebrow, then the other. "Can I do anything? Even just sit here?"

Sean does not usually sit quietly next to Patrick; he's always moving, talking, laughing, doing _something_. He has so much energy -- all the time, even when he's sad or freaking out or upset. Normally it's something Patrick likes a lot, that Sean has all these physical tells; but, Patrick realizes, this sitting quietly, this is a tell too. Patrick just hasn't seen it before.

Patrick loves the way Sean's fingers and hands feel on his face, guitar-callused on the tips, drumstick callused at the bases of his fingers and on his palms. He keeps his eyes shut and says, "Just . . . keep touching me."

"Sure," says Sean, his voice barely a breath, and his fingers stroke Patrick's chin, trace his mouth, down his throat, feather-light touches that scratch just a little, down to his collarbone and up again. Patrick tries to anticipate where Sean's touch is going to go, but when he thinks Sean's going to go for his forehead, he goes for his ears; when he thinks Sean's going to touch his nipples, Sean's fingers trace over his nose instead. He tries to relax into it, just breathe and feel and be in the moment, but he _can't_ , can't let go, can't just _exist_.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, his throat closing. Sean's fingers press down at the bottom of Patrick's throat, but press upward, make it hard to swallow.

"Don't be sorry." Sean stretches out next to him on his back, all his weight on the soft bed pulling Patrick toward him. Patrick literally rolls with it, rolls into him, pressing his forehead against Sean's bicep. His shirt smells like laundry detergent; Patrick's been up here longer than he'd thought if Sean's had time to wash and dry his clothes. "Do you wanna know what I'm thinking about?"

"Is it about how I'm a dick?" mumbles Patrick into Sean's arm.

Sean's fingers reach the back of Patrick's neck, soothe him, stroke up and down, up and down. It's hypnotic, the scrape of Sean's calluses over Patrick's spine, up into his hair and then down again.

"I was thinking about fucking you," Sean says, and his voice is so soft and gentle, his fingers touching Patrick so lightly, that it takes Patrick a couple of moments to process what he's actually saying.

"Fucking me," replies Patrick hoarsely.

"Your skin. Is so pink," Sean says, and a fingernail scratches down Patrick's spine before his fingertips gentle again. "When I held you down, where were we? In Florida? And you told me how to touch you, and all your bruises were purple and green. And your skin was so pale, and . . ." Sean trails off, moves a little, and rubs at the bottom of Patrick's spine, down under the waistband of his jeans, then back up. Patrick's breath hitches in his throat.

"I want to fuck you," Sean continues dreamily, "but I want to watch, too. I could line people up, everyone I know. Your ass is fucking amazing, I would just watch everyone fuck you all night. I bet your skin would get pinker and pinker, your . . . your nipples are . . ."

Patrick wants to roll over onto his back, let Sean pinch or bite his nipples, leave marks; his dick is hard, and he wants to fuck it into Sean's throat. They don't have a show tonight, and Sean can take it, is so good on his knees when he's choking on Patrick's cock, eyes watering, gasping for breath. Patrick moves his hips to press his dick against Sean, and Sean laughs a little above Patrick.

"Right?" he says. "Or I could be under you. Every time someone fucked into you, you'd hold me down tighter, push me down harder. I don't bruise like you do, though." Sean's fingers dip under Patrick's jeans again, into his crease. Patrick's hips move without his permission, and the softness of the bed feels like it's pushing them closer together. "And then I couldn't see. I want to see, Patrick. Your --"

Sean falters, and Patrick holds his breath, tries to wish him into continuing. A gangbang's never been part of Patrick's repertoire of fantasies for himself, but Sean makes it sound almost appealing, a performance for Sean rather than something that would be happening _to_ Patrick.

Patrick takes in a long breath, centers himself, and then says, "Tell me." Not a request; an order. He and Sean haven't been doing this for so long that he's sure Sean can tell the difference.

The bed surges as Sean moves. He curls around Patrick until he can press their foreheads together. He's sweaty, and his eyes are stormy, blue-grey, desperate.

"I would clean you," he says, breath hot on Patrick's face. He's so close, their mouths are almost touching. "I would lick you open for them, clean you after, watch every cock go into you, hold your legs." His fingers brush Patrick's hole -- too dry for penetration, but it doesn't matter, Patrick's hips stutter anyway, and yes, yes, he wants Sean's tongue on him, in him, Sean's hands all over him, holding _him_ down, Sean's eyes watching him. "Only I would get to touch you, stretch you, jerk you off, make you come, I want --"

Sean's fingers press -- one, two -- and he catches Patrick's mouth in a soft kiss, just as soft as the press of his fingers, and Patrick wants to come, is ready to come, wants, _wants_.

"I want you to fuck me," he says into Sean's mouth. "I want your tongue on me, I bet it would be so fucking good, I need you to -- make me come, Sean. Talk to me and make me come."

"I wish I could make you come with just my voice." Sean moves again, the bed rocks, and Sean rubs Patrick's cock through the front of his jeans, just pressure and friction, and it's not enough, Patrick wants Sean's fingers back on his hole, touching him _everywhere_.

"You could," Patrick chokes out, "I bet you could."

"Come, come for me, please," Sean begs, "please, Patrick, please." He puts extra pressure on Patrick's dick and leans forward, pressing Patrick backward, into the mattress, down, and his beard scratches Patrick's face when they kiss again. "Come for me, I want you to."

"I want," Patrick pants into Sean's mouth, "I want, you're so good, good boy --" and he comes, barely kissing Sean, just breathing into his mouth with their lips touching, Sean's weight all over him, keeping him pressed down even as he shakes.

Patrick loves it, but not once the come in his jeans starts cooling. "I feel disgusting," he groans.

"You feel great," Sean corrects. He shifts a little, but stays on top of Patrick. His dick is hard but he's not rubbing it on Patrick or anything, not trying to get off.

"No, my jeans --" Patrick struggles to unbutton his jeans and push them off, kicks off his boxers too. "I'm getting come on your clothes."

"They'll wash. They're just clothes." Sean nuzzles Patrick's face, rubbing his beard over Patrick's skin, cheeks, neck, down. He bites Patrick's nipples through his thin t-shirt, moves down, rubs his face over Patrick's stomach and then each thigh. When he gently licks the underside of Patrick's dick, soft against his thigh, Patrick clenches his fists in the comforter all twisted up under him. It feels good, it feels weird, he doesn't think he can get hard again this fast, but that doesn't seem to be what Sean's going for.

"Sean, fuck," gasps Patrick.

"Yes, please, let me," Sean mutters, and takes Patrick's soft dick into his mouth -- not to suck, but he's . . . cleaning. Like in his fantasy, licking up Patrick's come, cleaning his skin, hot tongue, biting kisses onto Patrick's upper thighs, tiny, barely-there kisses to the base of his cock. Careful. Gentle. Sweet.

"Sean," says Patrick on a sigh, and lets go of his grip on the comforter to pet Sean's head. "Good boy."

Sean whines around Patrick's dick, but stops, one last kiss to the head before he moves back up the bed.

When he lies down, Patrick feels like he's trying to make himself as small as possible, it's kind of weird. He curls up into Patrick's side, his head on Patrick's shoulder, his body awkward edges, his clothes rough against Patrick's bare skin.

He's careful not to press against Patrick's cock. Such a good boy. Patrick sighs, and arranges himself so he can keep one hand in Sean's hair, on the back of his neck.

"Thank you," Sean says, even though he still hasn't come. Even at the very beginning, it was so clear to Patrick that Sean likes to serve, likes to be useful, likes to be told what to do and praised for doing it, and it makes Sean so happy to hear that he's done a good job. As happy, Patrick thinks, as it makes him to tell Sean he's done a good job. It's the kind of feedback loop Patrick likes best.

"You did a good job," Patrick tells him, scratching his nails through Sean's hair. "I feel a lot better. I --"

"I lied," Sean whispers to him. "Is that okay?"

Patrick goes cold all over. "What did you lie about?" he asks slowly.

"I don't want to watch people fuck you. I don't." Sean takes a deep breath. "It was just . . . I don't want anyone else to touch you. Is. I." He takes another deep breath. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah," Patrick says softly, relaxing back into Sean's embrace. "No one else is gonna touch me while you're touching me, Sean."

"Oh -- I . . . okay, I'm glad you're. I'm glad," Sean says. He turns his face so it's buried in Patrick's shirt-covered shoulder, and Patrick pets him while he breathes slowly.

Patrick matches his breathing to Sean's, and pokes around inside himself to try to figure out how he feels. Not as angry anymore, not as upset. Tired. Hungry. He flexes his feet and points his toes, trying to work out a weird knot in his shin.

"Hey," he says, a little louder than he means to. Sean makes a noise. "I mean." Patrick has the worst timing, but he has to. He has to . . . tell Sean what he wants, what he expects. It's so easy when they're talking about sex and holding each other down and Sean doing what he's told. Patrick doesn't understand why it's so _hard_ when it's about his feelings and what he wants when he's not telling Sean what to do. This isn't the first time he's felt this way; this isn't the first time he's cared so much about trying to communicate and make shit work. It's just that it feels heavy and important, like something he can't, shouldn't fuck up by going for too much too fast. 

It feels like a song Pete would write, not something in Patrick's own stable of words.

"I don't want anyone else to touch you either," he finally says. He tugs on Sean's hair a little -- not enough to move him. Just enough so Sean knows Patrick is there, paying attention, in the moment with him. "Okay?"

Sean lifts his head. He's smiling, a small, shy smile. "I don't want anyone else to touch me," Sean says, and then puts his head back down, Patrick's hand falling right into place to keep stroking him. "Just you."

  



End file.
